Menage
by SmileyBlueEyes48
Summary: All the other murders or robberies (if any) in my stories before this one were just excuses for me to play with the characters. Here’s my first “ripped from the headlines.” The chapters are short and easy to read. Read and review. Be honest.
1. Default Chapter

4

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

Goren pulled back the starchy white sheet, caked with blood, to reveal the face of a lovely woman with a knife in her throat. His round little nose wrinkled in distaste.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Eames talking to the restaurant's maitre d'.

"It was crazy," he said. "Her business meeting just broke up. She was the last to leave—good tipper. She was walking out, fine, then just fell. Made this funny little gag noise."

"Just like that? You didn't see anybody?"

He shook his head. "The knife or whatever just appeared out of nowhere."

"Thanks," she said, frowning and handing him a card. "If you think of anything else, let us know." She strode toward the edge of the sidewalk where the body lay and lowered herself to examine what Goren found so interesting. "You hear that?"

He nodded, handing her a pair of rubber gloves. They bunched up around her joints, too big in the same places Goren's were too small. Once size fits all—not. "Look at this," he said, indicating the thin, straight cut above the knife's entry. "The blade was spinning when it pierced her throat. Like it was tossed."

Eames shuddered. "It would take luck or perfect aim to hit that target."

"You can get that accurate after a lot of practice with the right training."

"Great," she said, rolling her eyes. "We're looking for a psycho ninja."

He grinned and got to his feet, looking around the busy street. "She was facing this way," he said, positioning his body in the same direction as the victim. "She's what, about five-five? That means the blade was at this level." He indicated a spot on his chest and moved his hand straight out. "Now the angle is almost ninety degrees, so the knife was thrown at about the same height as its impact."

"That puts the attacker less than twenty feet away," said Eames, pulling out the victim's ID card. "Monica North, thirty-four years old, five-foot-five, one hundred thirty pounds, blonde hair, green eyes. Nothing to make her stand out in a crowd."

Goren lowered his eyes to North's face. Eames sent him a look. He always had a thing for the Nordic types. She hoped he wasn't going to take this too personally again. "See anything over there the perp could hide behind?"

He gauged the distance between himself and other solid objects capable of hiding a person, but found nothing close enough. "No. They were out in the open, took off, found a hiding place." He cocked his head, sharp eyes peering into the shadows between the street lights. "Probably one of the alleys… led them to a safe street."

Eames's eyes inevitably landed on a huge diamond engagement ring on the victim's left hand. "Well, let's have a chat with the boyfriend and see what he has to say."

Mick Rodriguez opened the door for the detectives with swollen eyes and a tissue in hand. "Come in," he said before they showed him their badges. "I'll tell you everything I can."

Goren and Eames traded glances. After so many years with the shield, the word _cop_ was ingrained in their features. Now that's depressing.

"We're sorry for your loss, Mister Rodriguez," said Eames as Goren took his customary look around the room. "Can you think of anyone who would want your girlfriend dead?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. Goren and Eames froze, looking at him expectantly. No one could ever think of someone wanting their loved-ones dead. This was new. "Rose Buhler. Monica's ex-partner."

Goren cocked his head. "What did Monica do for a living?"

"She was a CEO for Penguin Publishing Company, but Rose wasn't that kind of partner." He sent them a look that made his meaning clear.

"Lover-partner?" offered Eames, nodding. "All right then. Why would she want Monica dead?"

"Because of the custody battle over their daughter, Cynthia."

Eames's head was spinning. "_Their_ daughter?"

"It's a long story," said Rodriguez with a sigh.

Goren and Eames exchanged glances. "Well, we'd love to hear it."

He took a deep breath and motioned for them to sit down, rubbing his forehead as though wondering where to begin. "About seven years ago, Rose started working for Monica at the company. They fell in love, left their husbands and started living together. A little while later, they decided they wanted to raise a family, so they instilled the—the _services_ of a mutual friend. Some beefcake, I don't remember his name. Anyway, he had sex with both of them until Monica became pregnant with Cynthia. Since she had the steadier job, they decided that Monica would have the baby, then go straight back to work. Rose would stay home and raise her.

"Well, when Cynthia was about four Monica realized she wasn't being the mother she always wanted to be, and maybe the home they'd set up wasn't the best for raising a child. Rose drank a little bit and Monica was never there, so they split up and Monica took Cynthia."

"And Rose had a problem with that," Eames guessed.

Rodriguez nodded. "She took Monica to court, but since she's not the birth mother she's got about as much claim to Cynthia as a nanny. Maybe even less. The state of New York doesn't recognize gay marriages, so even with her new partner there's pretty much no hope of her taking Cynthia home."

Eames rubbed her temples to try and alleviate some of the pain shooting through her noggin. "How long have you and Monica been together?"

"Nine months."

"And now that she's dead, who will Cynthia go to?"

Rodriguez pondered for a moment, but his answer was definite. "Me. I'll go to court to make sure she gets to be raised in a stable, happy home."

Goren leaned forward, his fingers woven together. "Have you asked her if that's what she wants?"

Rodriguez looked at him like he was crazy. "She's five years old. She doesn't know what she wants."

Goren shook his head. "You'd be surprised." He stared at his hands for a moment before continuing. "Where is Cynthia now?"

Rodriguez looked at the clock over the television. "Preschool. You don't need to talk to her, do you?"

"No, that won't be necessary. Where does she attend school?"

"Memorial Elementary."

Goren nodded and jotted down a few notes in between the sketches and doodles of the day. "We need Rose Buhler's address and telephone number. If you had them, it would make our lives easier."

"I'll go check Monica's address book," he said, rising.

When he was out of ear-shot, Eames and Goren stood and held a conference by the sofa. "Well, he's not our guy," said Goren.

"Don't be so sure. I'm not taking him off the wall _just_ yet. Let's check to see who inherited Monica's money."

Goren shrugged. "If it'll make you happy."

Rodriguez returned a moment later with a slip of paper containing the information they needed.

Review, please! It makes my day when y'all do that.


	2. The unusual suspects

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

2

Rose reminded Goren for all the world of that Batman comic-book villainess Poison Ivy. She was petite, feminine, and red-headed with earthy green eyes and a soft, low voice that could seduce anyone into anything. She opened the door for them wearing a pretty pink sundress and pearls, an absolutely stunning woman.

"Rose Buhler?" asked Eames, flashing her badge.

Rose blinked in surprise. "Yes."

"I'm Detective Eames, this is Detective Goren, could we come in, please?"

Rose nodded and let them in, her eyes lingering a moment too long on Goren. In the parlor a tall, elegant black woman dressed in tan and khaki sent the detectives a dubious look. She set down the watering can she was using on the plants by the window and came to Rose's side.

"Blessing, these are detectives here to—uh," she creased her forehead and looked at them. "Here to what?"

"We're here to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind," said Eames, glancing in Blessing's direction.

"Anything you say to her you can say in front of me," said Blessing with a Sudanese accent.

"That's all right, darling," said Rose. "I'll be fine." She gave her partner a quick, passionate kiss and let her go.

Blessing passed the detectives on her way to the kitchen, eyeing Goren in a way that made his temperature rise. He cleared his throat and passed his notebook into his other hand.

"When was the last time you saw Monica North?" asked Eames.

Rose twisted her face in confusion. "I don't know… About a week ago, why?"

Eames took a deep breath. "She was murdered last night."

Rose's lack of reaction was far from suspicious. Her small body stiffened as shock settled in. "Oh my god. That's impossible. I just saw her last week." She ran her hands through her hair. "Things happen so quickly, don't they?"

"What's going on?" asked Blessing from the doorway.

Before the detectives could say anything Rose blurted out, "Monica is dead."

Blessing quickly found her way to Rose's side and held her hand as they sat on the couch.

"Miss North," continued Eames, "we have to ask you where you were last night at nine pm."

"Right," said Rose, composing herself. "At nine I was… I was at Macy's. Shopping for a friend's birthday."

"Did you use cash?"

Rose shook her head. "Credit card."

Goren focused his attention on Blessing. "And, while we're here, where were you?"

"The children had a play last night at seven. I was at the school until ten."

He flipped open his notebook. "You're a teacher? Where?"

"I'm the music teacher at Faithful Heritage." She turned to Rose. "If you don't feel like going to the party, we can stay home."

"No, Blessing, it's all right." Rose shook herself. "It was just a surprise. I'm feeling better now."

Goren watched them interact for a moment, sensing Eames next to him growing ever more disgusted. "We're going to need to know who Cynthia's father is."

Rose nodded. "Sam St. Claire. He was my karate instructor."

Goren's head jerked up. "Did you get your black belt?"

Rose shook her head. "I only got up to brown. Then Cynthia was born and other things became more important."

"Better than me," said Goren. "Blue. What's the name of his class?"

"St. Claire's Martial Arts. It's on Eleventh."

As Goren took down the address, Rose and Blessing watched him almost hungrily. Eames didn't know whether to laugh or puke.

"It might also help if we had your ex-husbands names and phone numbers. Just so we know."

"He's moved to California, I don't know where exactly," said Rose. "Jeff Gillenwater. I don't remember Monica's husband's name. It didn't seem important. She awakened me to my bisexuality." She squeezed Blessing's hand. "For that I'll always be thankful."

"Don't you ever miss men?" Eames couldn't help but ask. Goren's eyebrows shot up.

"Yes," Blessing and Rose answered in unison. Blessing smiled and continued. "Things are better here for women than in Sudan. Sometimes, if we see a man we both like, we bring him into our bed."

"Blessing!" exclaimed Rose, giggling. "She can be very candid, after all those years of speaking when spoken to." Goren and Eames grinned appreciatively, uncomfortably. Again the women's eyes violated the specimen before them. Goren wasn't sure how to behave.

"Um—has Sam ever had any contact with Cynthia?"

Rose shook her head. "He didn't seem interested. He was there for the birth, and he sends her birthday presents and Christmas cards. Oh, where are my manners? Would either of you like a glass of water or something to eat?"

"No, thank you," said Eames.

"Water, please," said Goren, fiddling with the knot of his tie. Rose got to her feet with a smile and went to the kitchen. "Are we keeping you from something?" he asked Blessing.

"Our friend is having a garden party at three."

"What kind of plants do they grow? It's a little early for a garden, isn't it?" asked Eames.

"He has a greenhouse full of beautiful flowers year-round. This week the jasmine has bloomed and he's as proud as punch."

"Jasmine blooming in March," said Goren. "That's extraordinary."

"Do you like flowers, Detective?" asked Rose, handing him his water.

He nodded. "I guess so, yeah. I don't have a garden, but then again I don't own any dirt."

The women giggled just as Eames's cell phone rang. She took the call by the door, giving the three still in the living room a sense of privacy. "So, Detective, what did you say your name was?"

"Goren. Robert Goren."

"That's what I thought, but I wanted to make sure. How was Monica killed?"

He hesitated. "Stabbed."

She closed her eyes and crossed herself. "She's happier now. She's at peace."

Goren grunted. "That's a lovely rug," he said, noticing the old mat at his feet.

"Thank you," said Blessing. "It was quite a find."

"Yeah, I like a good bargain. Do you buy many antiques?"

"I like old furniture, yes. You have an appreciation for beautiful things."

He grinned. "Always have had." The ladies smiled at the remark. "Did you buy this at the same place you bought those?" he asked, indicating a pair of swords over the hearth.

"No, there is a street a few blocks from here full of novelty shops. I believe I bought the rug at Simmons Pawn and the swords at Shannon River Shop."

"She knows how to make a house a home," said Rose affectionately. She watched Goren for a moment as he finished his water and set the glass down on a coaster. "I'll get that in a moment."

"Thank you."

"Such manners," whispered Rose to Blessing, almost too low to hear. He would've missed it if not for his sharper than average hearing. Their lips barely moved.

"Very considerate," said the other. "And strong, see?"

"Detective, we'd love it if you'd come to dinner some time." Rose grinned—very Poison Ivy.

Unable to help it, his belly burned with an impolite heat for a brief moment as he looked at these two gorgeous women and thought about what they would have done to him. "Well, you--"

"That was Deakins," interrupted Alex. "He wanted to know where we were."

Goren nodded. "Guess that means we'd better get back to work."

"You have our number," said Eames to the other women. "Call us if you think of anything."

"We will," said Rose, showing them to the door.

Once outside, Goren pulled himself back into real life and out of the fantastic little coma he'd probably just fallen into. "There was more estrogen in that room than I've been exposed to since birth."

"Add those numbers to your little black book, Bobby," said Alex getting behind the wheel. "It could be fun."

Review. You know you want to. :-)


	3. Unusualer suspects

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

3

Sam St. Claire was one of those six and a half feet tall, blow-dried Fu Manchu wearing, steroid-pumped gym bunnies with suspiciously small feet that always made Eames smile. He was athletic with a quick mind, which is probably why Rose and Monica picked him to donate his DNA for their baby.

Before they came into his studio, the detectives had a little chat in the car. "I don't understand how he could bring a kid to life and not care enough to have a part in her upbringing."

"Statistically," began Goren, "men prefer to have boys. When asked, three to one say they want a boy, and unmarried men are twice as likely to stay with their pregnant girlfriends if the ultrasound suggests a penis. If dads don't get a boy on the first try, they're likely to keep trying until they can't try anymore, or get one."

Eames sighed. "That's terrible. Men are scum."

"Hey," said Goren, affronted. "Not all of us. I've always wanted a girl, actually. One of each. The boy born first to keep an eye on her for me. You know. Stick up for his little sister."

"What if the girl was first?"

"Then I'd have a spy. Instead of 'Keep an eye on her,' it's 'Squeal on her.' Little boys are good informants."

"Just two kids?"

"Yeah," he said. "After that it gets kind of crazy, you know?"

"Yes, I do. What if they're both girls?"

He smiled. "Then I'll have two little princesses to have my tea with."

Eames rolled her eyes as they pulled into the parking lot. St. Claire was holding a punching bag for a wimpy-looking kid with a gray belt. At the sight of the detectives, he called a time-out and sent the little ninja over to partner-up with a slightly older child.

"What can I do ya for?" he asked with a smile that stretched his moustache into a straight line.

Eames suppressed a gag and flashed her badge. "Mister St. Claire, we're here about Monica North."

His face twisted into concern. "Right. Well, step into my office, please." He took them into a little room to the side and parked himself behind the desk. "What's this all about? Is Cynthia all right?"

"She's fine," said Goren in a _why-would-you-care_ tone of voice. Deadbeat dads were not his favorite people. "It's about Monica."

"She was murdered last night."

St. Claire whistled low. "That's terrible. She was so spirited. Surely she put up a fight."

"She didn't have time to," said Eames. "She was stabbed."

St. Claire shook his head. "Well, I don't know what I can do. I haven't seen her in years."

"About that—why didn't you show any interest in Cynthia?"

His moustache drooped like a hound dog's ears. "That's not what her mothers wanted. I agreed to stay out of it. There was no contract or anything, we just agreed. That was all." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. "Monica sent me a new picture every six months."

He handed them the most recent picture. Cynthia had his nose, but everything else was pure Monica. "She's beautiful," said Eames, meaning it. "Have you ever thought about asking for visitation rights?"

He shook his head. "I didn't want to intrude."

The detectives exchanged glances. "Mister St. Claire," said Goren. "Where were you last night at nine?"

"Here," he said. "Filling out paper work."

"Was anyone with you?"

"No. We close at eight."

Goren ran his hand over his mouth. "Do you have any proof of your whereabouts?"

Suspicion clouded St. Claire's beady little eyes. "What's this about? Do you think I killed her?"

"We're just ruling you out, Mister St. Claire. You seem like a nice guy, I can't see you stabbing Monica just for the hell of it." Eames gauged his reaction carefully.

"There's a security camera by the door," he answered slowly. "I left at quarter-til ten. It should be on there."

"We're going to need those tapes," said Eames. "Do you teach knife-throwing?"

St. Claire snorted. "No. Unless you're a secret agent or something, it's illegal."

Goren nodded at the larger man, tapping his own much larger foot on the ground, a signal to Eames that they weren't going to get anything more interesting out of this guy. "Thank you for your time. We'll show ourselves out."

"If you think of anything else, call us," said Eames, handing him her card.

"Will do, ma'am."

They stepped outside his office, Eames grumpy from her lack-luster afternoon, Goren watching the kids kick, punch and scream their ways into warrior-hood. "I'm starting to run low on cards," she said, counting up the remaining ones. "Remind me to refuel when we get back to the Plaza."

He had his knuckles against his lower lip, lost in thought. "What I don't get," said Eames, "Is what he'd have gotten out of killing Monica."

Goren shook his head. "We'll check the finances of Blessing and Rose to see if anything is missing."

"You think they had a hand in it?"

"Somehow. But I can't see him doing it for money."

"What then? Revenge?" He sent her a dubious look. "Managed to shift the blame from his sperm to her eggs for giving him a daughter he couldn't force himself to care about."

He rubbed the back of his neck as though a tension headache had taken over the highest quarter of his body. "Unlikely."

"Sexual favors, then," she suggested, getting exasperated. "Two bisexual babes all over a loser like that? What wouldn't he do?"

"I don't know. I'm hungry, let me buy some lunch."

"Sounds good to me. Where to?"

"Someplace close," he said, pulling the door open. "There's a little pawn shop I want to take a look at."

The Shannon River Shop specialized in Celtic goods and novelty items. Eames smiled over a T-shirt in the corner. "_Warning: Irish Temper and Italian Attitude_. I should get that for Mom."

Goren's phone rang before he could answer. He picked it up while Eames perused the shop and waited for an employee to show. After a brief conversation, he closed the phone and turned to his partner.

"That was ballistics. The weapon was an old carving knife that had been sharpened until it was razor-thin. It's untraceable. Probably sold in a pawn shop." He took a suggestive look around the store until his eyes rested on a collection of swords, daggers and arrows behind a shelf of shot glasses.

"This just keeps getting better and better."

"Can I help you?" asked a withered old man from behind the counter.

"I'm Detective Eames this is Goren, we're investigating a murder in which one of your knives might have been the weapon."

"That's not possible," he said defensively. "All our blades are blunted down. Nearly harmless."

"Unless someone sharpens them back up again."

"That would leave them paper-thin and flimsy."

"Do you have any idea how many people have died of paper cuts?"

He looked peeved but didn't say anything else. Eames showed him a picture of the knife. "Is this one of yours?"

He checked the picture carefully. "It's not Celtic. It's American. You'll have to try Patriot's Pawn."

"We'll do that, thanks."

The girl behind the counter at Patriot's Pawn recognized the knife immediately. "Sure, I sold that one about a week ago."

Eames held up a picture of Blessing Knowles. "Is this who you sold it to?"

She glanced at the photo. "I don't think so. I don't think I've ever seen her before."

She had the same thing to say for Sam St. Claire, Rose Buhler, even Mick Rodriguez.

"Do you remember who did buy it?"

The girl's eyes darted to the left, a sign of honesty. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"That camera back there," said Goren, indicating the security camera over the girl's left shoulder. "Is it always on?"

"It is now, but the day before I sold the knife a car crashed into the power line over the shop. The power was out for two days. But the weather was perfect and we have a lot of windows, so we stayed open. It's busy season for novelty shops."

"That's convenient," said Eames. "And the buyer didn't use credit cards."

She shook her head. "Nope. Most of our customers pay in cash. Small purchases, you know. Collectors."

Eames nodded and handed her yet another business card. "If you think of anything let us know," she said, sounding like a broken record.

Outside the shop, Eames peeked through windows at the pretty treasures on display, the vast majority of which were completely useless. "Were they able to lift any prints off the knife?"

"A couple. They're running them through the system right now but if it came from a pawn shop, a lot of people have handled it."

Eames sighed. "What we need is to take a look in St. Claire's apartment."

Goren shook his head. "We need a warrant, and Carver's not even going to _try_ on this evidence."

"Good thing we've got more than one lawyer friend," said Eames, starting the car and pulling out.

Review, please.


	4. Not gonna go there

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

4

Eames pulled up to Mercy Phelps's house at five in the afternoon to find the place glowing welcomingly, but no room as bright as her greenhouse. They saw her puttering around the plants dressed in head-to-toe blue jeans with a dog snoozing at her feet and a cat trying to catch her attention on the table.

As they approached, the detectives would occasionally see a flutter of movement above her head. "That's where she keeps her lovebirds," said Eames. "I wondered about that. Didn't see them last time."

She rapped lightly on the door to catch Mercy's attention. Surprised, she set down her pruning sheers and checked the ceiling to see where her birds were before letting them in. "Hey guys. This is a treat." She grinned and closed the door behind them. "What do you want?"

"A warrant," answered Eames honestly.

"This is beautiful," said Goren, entirely too large for the greenhouse. "Did you build this yourself?"

"Yes I did," she said with pride. "I tucked out of work early today to tend to my deprived little plants. But enough wasting your time. What's your evidence?"

Quickly as they could, they went over their story and emphasized the important parts. "Wow," said Mercy when it was over. She let down her ponytail and put up another one to get her flyaway strands out of her eyes. "So what do you have against St. Claire?"

"Well he didn't do it for money. There's no unaccounted for purchases coming from either Knowles or Buhler. Coworkers say Knowles was at the play until late, and Buhler's credit cards were used at the time of the murder. St. Claire's security tapes are being looked over right now."

"He'll be on there," Mercy guaranteed.

"He _should_ be on there," corrected Goren, leaning down to pet Tiny, the fluffy St. Bernard.

"You shouldn't do that Bobby, she's been abused; she doesn't like men…" Mercy trailed off, unable to believe her eyes. Tiny rolled over on her back and wagged her tail, her tongue lolling off to the side as Goren rubbed her belly.

"That's a good girl," cooed Goren as a bird landed on Mercy's shoulder. He continued buttering up to the beast for a moment, then stood and sniffed a flower right by his head. "This one's pretty," he said. "Hibiscus?"

Mercy nodded, disturbing the lovebird who had taken residency by her ear. "My favorite. I saw a golden one when I was a kid and fell in love. Yellow isn't a popular color on the East Coast so I haven't been able to find any golden ones up here."

Eames watched him nod the way he does when he was making a mental note. She suspected Mercy would be getting a gift someday. In a pot.

"Anyway, it's a stretch, but I'll see what I can do. Come on in. I made cookies today."

Goren straightened. "Cookies? What kind?"

Eames rolled her eyes. "Excuse him. Two hollow legs and they're each a mile long."

"That's fine," said Mercy with a grin. "I like his legs. And I made my cookies for sharing."

Mercy's house was comfortable, hospitable and educated, but guarded. It felt like it was wrapping its arms around you, trying to make you feel welcome while it wore a suit of armor. Just like Mercy. Too jaded to let anyone in without a thorough once-over.

She waved her arm over the cookies cooling on the rack and picked up the phone to call a friendly judge. Goren waited politely for Eames to take the first so he didn't come off as a moocher. Once she'd succumb to the delicious aroma, he snatched one up and savored every gooey morsel.

"Bottom line?" asked Mercy in response to the judge's question. She looked at the detectives and grinned. "Bobby Goren and Alex Eames have a feeling about this guy." There was a pause. Then, "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." She hung up. "You can pick up your warrant tomorrow."

Alex smiled through a mouthful of chocolate chip. "That was fast."

Mercy shrugged. "Pussy-footing gets you nowhere."

Bobby leaned back in his chair in the kitchen table and loosened his tie, confident the work day was all-but over. "Don't get too comfortable," said Alex. "We've still got paperwork back at the Plaza." He groaned and reached for another cookie.

Mercy got one for herself and shooed a Siamese cat off the cabinet, its ID tags jingling when it landed on the floor. The dogs dozed in the living room while somewhere in the house a guinea pig made happy little bubble noises. Every creature in her house had another one or two of its own kind to keep it company—except Mercy. Alex sighed mysteriously to herself.

"So tell me more about the case," said Mercy, pouring herself a cup of milk. She offered some to Bobby and Alex. "This is one of the more interesting situations I've heard in a long time."

"You should've seen Rose and Blessing today," said Alex. "They probably haven't seen a penis in years. They miss it. It shows."

"Amen," said Mercy, taking a seat. Tiny came up and set her head in Bobby's lap; he absent-mindedly stroked her head.

"Something doesn't fit," he said, rubbing Tiny's ears. "I don't know—one of those feelings. I'll feel better when we get a look at his apartment tomorrow."

Mercy grinned, watching her dog pant happily on his knee. "Animals like you," she remarked. "That's a good sign. It tells me I should trust you, too."

"I never got along with Boomer," said Alex. "What does that tell you?"

"That you stepped on his ears too much," quipped Mercy with a straight face.

Alex grunted. "He lays his head down and they go everywhere. It's not my fault."

"They make such horrible noises, don't they?" said Bobby. "Basset hounds. When you step on them."

"Yes they do. Do you like hound dogs, Bobby?"

He nodded. "Anyway, that reminds me—were you in the Park last Friday?"

"Yeah," she said. "I thought I saw you there. You should really cut back on those hot dogs. Bad for you."

"So are pretzels the size of your head and king-sized root beer floats."

She chuckled. "Touché. Alex, what have you been up to?"

She shrugged. "Working, living and loving."

"Oh, that's nice," said Mercy, pulling a muscle rather than rolling her eyes. "Would you guys like to stay for dinner?"

Alex started to respond but the ringing of her cell phone cut her off. "Can't," said Eames apologetically. "Duty calls."

"Serve and protect," said Mercy understandingly. "That's all right. I didn't want you here anyway, I was just being polite."

"Thanks," said Eames, answering the phone.

When she wasn't looking, Mercy grabbed a paper bag and filled it with a handful or two of cookies. "A few for the road," she whispered to Goren, winking.

He smiled broadly and put them in his pocket. Maybe he'd share if Eames was nice to him. He became aware of a large, wet spot on his thigh where Tiny's head had been. Upon looking down, he discovered an enormous puddle of drool on his nice black slacks.

Mercy chuckled apologetically and handed him a few paper towels. "You've been slobbered."

He smiled benignly and did his best to dry himself off.

"Thanks for all your help," said Alex, hanging up. "See you Monday."

"Ditto," said Mercy, holding the door open for them.

"I expect you to share those cookies," said Eames when they were both securely in the car. He whimpered and pulled the bag out, offering her the first one, like a true gentleman.

Review or I'll die… OK, not really. I just like reviews.


	5. Fifth

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

5

Eames and Goren were lucky enough the next day to arrive at Sam St. Claire's apartment when he was out. Their luck ended, of course, with the door being locked and the landlord being at the grocery store.

"Great," said Goren. "Now we wait."

Eames sent him a look. "Gee, if only there was a big, strong man around to knock the door down for us. How much easier life would be."

He returned her glare. "I'm not going to knock the door down, Eames. Have you seen the size of that guy?"

She sighed and leaned her back against the wall, bouncing to the rhythm of her thoughts. "Chicken." A lengthy wait later the landlord finally returned with an armload of fresh produce and the keys to all his tenants' rooms.

"May I ask what you're looking for?" he said, pushing the door open for them.

"We don't know," said Eames as Goren headed straight for the living room area. Eames pulled open the drawer underneath the TV in his bedroom and frowned. "I found his porn stash," she hollered. She rifled through for any sign of aphelia or abnormality. "Ew," she mumbled. "Men are gross."

"I'm sorry," said Goren, coming up behind her.

She grunted and closed the drawer with a disgusted shove. "Find anything?"

"Just your standard issue ninja knives," he answered, indicating a set of dull daggers and swords behind the recliner. "Not a match to the ones in the victim."

Eames shuddered. "Does everyone in New York have a set of those but me?"

"Most people don't sharpen them."

"But most people _could_. A typical piece of pumice for keeping kitchen blades sharp could turn those babies into the death-machines they were meant to be."

"I also found this," said Goren, producing St. Claire's day planner as much to change the subject as to show Eames new evidence. "It looks here like he had 'Special Lessons' with a kid named Nathan every Wednesday and Saturday." He looked into Eames's face for a sign of a reaction and found that she'd gone stiff.

"Oh, surely not--" she began, but again her cell phone cut her off. One of her contact cards had finally paid off.

"Detective Eames?" said a nervous voice from the other end of the line. "It's Stacy from Patriot's Pawn. I remember who I sold the knife to."

Eames shut her eyelids slowly, retreating into the darkness and quiet of her inner-most mind. "What did he look like?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have—it didn't seem like there'd be any harm…"

"What did he look like, Stacy, please?"

She hesitated. "It was a kid. A little boy with light brown hair and freckles."

"How old would you say he was?" asked Eames, sending Goren her patented _I-hate-it-when-you're-right_ look.

"Eleven or twelve, maybe."

"Thank you," said Eames. "You've been a big help. Don't beat yourself up over this, it wasn't your fault. If you like you can talk to my boss and he'll tell you what to do next." When the exchange was done, Eames turned to Goren and they wordlessly started for the car.

Back inside the karate school, Eames found St. Claire in his office as Goren searched the faces for a kid who fit the description of the buyer. He found one in the form of an aggressive kid standing off to the side with a Gameboy, happily blowing off people's heads and setting helpless animals on fire.

"Nathan?" he asked, folding his hands together behind his back.

"Yeah," said the kid, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"I'm Bobby."

"Hi."

"Hi." There was a pause. "Whatcha playing?"

"Death Assault Wolf-Attack 3. It just came out the day before yesterday."

"I like wolves," said Bobby, watching one on the game steal a truck and drive over a herd of peasants and sheep. "They don't usually act like that."

Nathan shrugged. "I'm just in it for the explosions. Watch." He drove the truck into an oil well with glee and smiled as flames overtook the vehicle and everything inside it.

Bobby frowned as the surprisingly detailed wolf's fur singed, followed by scorched flesh falling off blackened bones and yowls of pain all the while. "That's quite an advanced system you've got there," he commented. _Man,_ he thought, _where are this kid's parents_?

"Ah, Detective Goren," said St. Claire, stepping out of his office behind Eames. "Rose and Blessing told me you paid them a visit. They liked you very much." He chuckled. "Believe me."

"Yes, well," said Goren, straightening and crossing his arms. "We paid a little visit to your apartment, and found that you've been giving Nathan here special lessons twice a week."

St. Claire paled ever-so-slightly for just a moment. "Yes. He was having a little trouble with his kicks and I agreed to help him. He wants his black belt very badly."

"I can see that," said Goren, noticing the boy's hands. "Are you into archery, Nathan?"

"Huh?" said the kid, finally turning the game off after his last wolf burst into flames.

"Your calluses. People usually get them when they've spent a lot of time firing a bow and arrow."

"Oh, yeah," said Nathan, rubbing his fingers together. "I'm into lots of stuff."

"Like what?" asked Eames. St. Claire sent him a look and the kid chose his words carefully.

"Ninja stuff."

"I'll bet you've got pretty good aim, huh?" Goren was getting closer to the point.

"What is this?" demanded St. Claire. The detectives and kid all three ignored him.

"Hell yeah," bragged Nathan. "The best. I never miss."

Goren sent Eames a look and kept a continually stiffening St. Claire closely monitored out of the corner of his eye. "Which school do you go to, Nathan?"

"Faithful Heritage. I'm in the fifth grade."

Goren started to chew on his left thumbnail. "The same school Blessing teaches at. Is Miss Knowles your teacher?"

Nathan was just old enough to become suspicious of a series of personal questions being asked one after another. "Y-Yeah. She teaches choir."

"That's enough!" cried St. Claire, at last deciding to throw his weight around. He put his enormous body between Goren and Nathan, puffing his chest out and trying to look intimidating. "I don't know what you're after, but you're not going to find it. Step away, little man."

Goren raised his eyebrows. "We're just asking some questions."

"Bull. I'm calling my lawyer."

"You do that," said Eames, taking Goren's elbow and pulling him toward the door. "And we'll call ours."

"Let me get this straight," said Carver, running his fingertips wearily over his eyelids. "Rose and Blessing wanted custody of Cynthia, and because they had no claim to her the only option they saw was killing the mother, Monica. They did this by instilling the help of Cynthia's father, Sam, although he had shown hardly any interest in her before this mess. In exchange for—what?"

"Sexual favors," Eames filled.

"Sexual favors," continued Carver, "he trained one of his martial arts students to throw a knife and sent him out on the street one night with the mission of killing Monica. That much I can almost wrap my brain around. What does the kid get out of it?"

"Well, if power, a sense of accomplishment and the tools to live out a dream aren't enough for you, there's this," offered Goren, producing a report card. "Nathan was held back last year because of poor grades. Blessing Knowles is his music teacher. He was failing her class, but suddenly a few days ago his grade shot up to an A. Blessing claims it was because he did such a fine job keeping track of the lights and curtains and whatnot backstage. No one else saw him, though. With all his other classes being mid to low Ds, he can now go on to sixth grade."

"That's nice," said Carver. "And I'll bet extra time with Coach was a bonus treat." He thought a moment. "How did you get the warrant to search Sam St. Claire's house?"

"We talked to my friend, Mercy Phelps," answered Eames. "We couldn't reach you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't, it doesn't matter now." He waved tiredly, remembering a threat he'd made to have their badges if they ever went behind his back. He really sucked at keeping promises like that. "A lot of the evidence here is circumstantial, and sexual favors are always hard to prove. But there just might be enough to go to trial." He sent Goren a look. "A confession would be more convenient."

"I don't see that happening," said Goren. "St. Claire thinks he's indestructible. He's invented an image of himself as this towering, unbeatable figure of masculinity. It's most likely some kind of compensation for… I don't know, a bad first sexual experience, or whatever. But it's highly unlikely he'll say anything if it's just us backing him into a corner."

"Well, let's bring in the gang," said Deakins, finally speaking up from his desk. "See what we can get out of them."

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	6. Cravings

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

6

When school let out and the work day was over Rose and Blessing were called in for a chat at the Plaza. They sat together in the interrogation room, holding hands as their lawyer went over their story before the detectives came in. "I think I'd better take this one," said Goren, watching them carefully.

"Of course you do," said Eames. "Be careful."

"Of what?" He felt that with the evidence they'd gathered since the warrant to search the women's apartment, he was invincible.

She sent him a look. "Anyway," he continued. "Look at their reactions—their postures, the way they look around the room, keep staring at the mirror and watching the door."

"Rose seems nervous and confused, but look at Blessing."

"Like a lioness defending her cub." Eames nodded. Goren finished. "I don't think Rose had anything to do with this."

"Sexual favors can still be traded between two people."

He nodded. "We'll see."

Eames began to worry Goren had forgotten how to have normal sex. Carver came in, followed by Mercy. "Hope I'm not interrupting," she said, closing the door behind her. "I wanted to catch the show."

"Not at all," said Deakins. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Ready?" Goren asked no one in particular. Everyone nodded and watched his broad back retreat out the door, leaning in closer when he appeared again before them in the cell-like room. "Good afternoon, ladies," he said cordially.

"Hello, Detective Goren," said Blessing. "Where is the lady detective?"

"She's on another case," he said. "And you two can call me Robert if you like."

"This ought to be good," said Alex, crossing her muscular arms. Mercy chuckled. It wasn't a new tactic, using his sexuality to get the information he wanted, but it wasn't his favorite.

"I'd prefer we kept this professional, Detective," said their lawyer apprehensively.

"No problem," said Goren. Before his sat down, he slid off his jacket and drooped it on the back of his chair. "Is it too warm in here for you ladies?" he asked, facing the mirror and loosening his tie, making sure they got a good long view of his powerful shoulders, his third favorite part of his body.

"Actually," said Rose, "It is a bit hot, now that you mention it."

Goren nodded and tapped the glass, pointing down. Mercy and Alex exchanged glances. Deakins did as he knew he was requested and turned the thermostat down. "That's my boss in there," said Goren, facing the table, "making sure I don't jump ya."

Eames snorted as the girls giggled and the lawyer shifted uncomfortably. Before he started questioning, he unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, watching his reflection sadly. "I need a haircut," he said lightly, but no one in the viewing room believed that was what he was so depressed over. Mercy lifted her hand to the place on the mirror level to his right shoulder and curled her fingers as though wishing she could give him a companionable, comforting squeeze.

"Anyway," he said, finally seating himself and laying his hands flat on the table as though wondering where to begin, serving both make him look friendly and informal, as well as making sure they got a good look at his second favorite part of his body.

Rose had hardly looked away from his long fingers before they were moving toward his brown notebook and deftly pulling back the zipper. "Well, your alibis are iron-clad, but I'd like to ask you a few questions about Sam St. Claire."

Rose looked surprised as Blessing's eyes narrowed. "Sure," she said, "whatever you want."

"When was the last time you had sex with Sam?"

Rose cocked her head, thinking. "Oh God, I guess it's been about… almost six and a half years. We found out Monica was pregnant in June of '97…"

"And you, Blessing?"

There was a pause as Rose looked at Blessing, her eyebrows raised. Blessing became defensive. "I have always been faithful to my love."

Goren nodded. "Answer my question, please."

Another long pause and Blessing looked as though she were struggling. "Never," she said at length.

"I believe you," Goren lied believably. "I can tell you don't like to lie."

"Blessing is a horrible liar," vouched Rose.

"That's good," said Goren. "Then please tell the truth the first time when I ask how this used condom with Sam St. Claire's fingerprint wound up in your trashcan?" He showed them a picture of what was unmistakably a condom, and then a comparison of the fingerprints found on it and prints already in the system. "He's on the record from a public intoxication back in 1992. This is a perfect ten-point match. Would you like us to spend thirteen thousand dollars on a DNA test, or would you rather tell us what happened?"

Blessing's eyes darted from face to face; her lawyer's mild curiosity, Goren's patient encouragement and Rose's increasing suspicion. "It's obvious, isn't it?" said Blessing hard-headedly. "I slept with him once. That was all. Rose was out for the day and he dropped by. It happens sometimes, to both of us. It was no big deal." She was talking to Rose now, pleading.

Rose dropped her face into her hands and breathed steadily. "You slept with Sam St. Claire." She sounded as though she couldn't believe her own words. "How could you do that? He should be designated for breeding purposes only. That man is barely worth as much as his sperm. How could you lower yourself to him?"

Goren listened, interested.

"Man, they've got a crappy lawyer," Eames commented. The others nodded, thankful.

"It wasn't for me! I got no satisfaction from it!"

"That's not surprising. He's hung like a Chihuahua; it's like doing it to a thermometer." Rose seemed to be steps away from crumbling into despair.

"I thought size didn't matter," said the lawyer.

"Yes it does," said Rose, Blessing and Goren at the same time.

Behind the mirror, everyone watched as though hypnotized. "I'll bet you guys have some interesting bathroom graffiti on this floor," said Mercy without a hint of a smile.

"I did it for you!" cried Blessing, getting desperate.

"Ha!" exclaimed Rose. "_How_, Blessing? _How_ could betraying my trust like that possibly benefit our relationship? How could it help me?"

Blessing looked frantically from Rose to her lawyer to Goren and back at Rose. "I can't tell you."

"Because you have no reason!" Rose picked up her purse and got to her feet. "We're through."

"No!" cried Blessing. "Rose, I did it because he could give us Cynthia."

Time froze for who knows how long. Not a heart beat, not a breath drawn, not an eye blinked. "Miss Knowles, don't say a word," her lawyer was the first to say.

"No, I want to hear this," said Rose.

"I want to tell her," said Blessing, calmly. "I'd rather go to prison than have you hate me, Rose. Prisons in America are nothing like life in Africa. I can handle it."

Powerless, her lawyer threw up his hands and sat himself down to enjoy the show. Rose stood at the end of the table as Goren pulled the chair back for her and pushed it in, just as she sat down. "Go on, Blessing," he said.

"You told me he was Cynthia's father. I thought he would care about where his child would end up. He said he had a kid who could take care of it for us," she said without hesitation. "He said there was a child who could kill her and make it look like a random thing. When he gave me the child's name, I recognized it; he was in my music class."

"How did you and Sam come to discuss this?" asked Goren.

"I went to his class," she admitted. "Just once. I wanted to see if he, himself, would kill Monica."

"Blessing, why would you--" Rose began, but Goren shushed her.

"He wouldn't do it. He was a coward. But the boy he knew, and I knew, he could kill her very easily. We all three had something to offer each other. But the stupid child forgot to take her purse." Her head sank into the crook of her arm on the table. "He threw the knife at her—can you believe it? It was supposed to be a stab, steal and run, as Sam put it. But Nathan was too stupid to carry it out properly. He didn't care about the plan. He just wanted to kill."

No one moved as Blessing and Rose wept silently. After a beat, Goren motioned for a guard to come in and take her to her cell. Goren joined the team in the viewing room, looking dehydrated. "One down, two to go," he said.

"I'll take the next one," she said. "Nathan. We'll have to take Sam down together."

Goren nodded as Mercy handed him a cup of water. "The brilliant Robert Goren," she said. "Sometimes we forget that brilliance comes in knowing when to stay quiet.

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	7. Wrap it up

Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.

7

For a kid who had absolutely no remorse over what he'd done to ruin so many people's lives, Nathan Razor was very well-protected by some incredibly expensive lawyers and two parents who seemed to just now be realizing they'd raised a latchkey kid. Of course, it's never too late to set things right—or so psychiatrists say.

Eames sat in her chair in the interrogation room, smiling benignly as all the reasons the charges against this child were foolhardy were listed. He was such a nice boy, really he was. Just the sweetest baby. Sweet babies don't grow into sociopaths.

"That's all well and good, Missus Razor, but the evidence speaks for itself."

"What evidence?" demanded lawyer #1. "It's all circumstantial, plus the testimony of a woman who's expected to do twenty-five to life if convicted. Why don't you just ask him outright?" He tossed up his hands. "Denial is all it'll take to put this case in the ground."

Eames looked straight into Nathan's face. "Nathan, did you kill Monica North?"

He smiled an evil little smile, hands folded in feigned politeness in his lap. "No, ma'am, I didn't stab nobody."

"_Anybody_," corrected Eames, anger burning. She hated this kind of bratty kid. They were everywhere these days. She'd beat him before she'd let him answer such a serious question in such a foolhardy way. "First of all, 'Didn't stab nobody' is a double negative, leading to a positive, so we could almost take that as a confession right there. Second, she technically wasn't stabbed, she had a knife thrown at her from a close distance. Theoretically, your client just admitted to another murder, somewhere else," she said snidely. "Would you like me to check the records?"

"Man, that's weak," said lawyer #2. "If that's the best you can come up with, we're gone."

"Just giving you an example of the things New York Police can do when we set our minds to it, sir," she said, looking back at Nathan. "And anyway, we found one of his fingerprints on the knife. Your left thumb. You're left-handed, aren't you Nathan?" He said nothing. "This time using proper English, answer my question. Did you kill Monica North?"

He waved his head back and forth like a child without a care in the world. "I didn't stab anybody."

"Yes or no, please."

"He's as good as answered," said the mother.

"Let him speak for himself. Yes or no, please, Nathan."

"No!" he cried, pounding his fists on the table. Eames was beginning to feel sorry for all the pounding that poor interrogation room table suffered through. "No, no, no! I don't want to!"

Eames sighed, rubbing her temples. "Please inform your child, Missus Razor, that he is entirely too old to be throwing tantrums like this."

"Natey, now stop it," she cooed kindly. Wishy-washily.

"Don't tell me what to do!" cried the pre-pubescent individual. "I'll kill you, too!"

Eames allowed herself to smirk. "And we caught that on tape. Smile for the recorder." She got to her feet, already wondering in her mind where she left the Excedrin. "ADA Carver shall be in here momentarily."

Standing over her desk, battling with her bottle of headache medicine, Eames forced a smile as Goren and Mercy approached. "Remind me to shoot myself if my nephew ever gets that way," she said, handing the impossible bottle to Goren.

He twisted it open without effort and presented it back to her, grinning apologetically. "Next time I get the belligerent kid and _you_ hang out with the lesbians."

Eames snorted. "Well, that's the second piece to this puzzle. The third should fall into place like leaves in the autumn."

"Poetic," commented Mercy. "Well, you never know. He might be a tougher nut than you give him credit for."

Goren and Eames glanced at her. "No," they said in unison. Mercy shrugged.

"Well, he should be here in about thirty minutes. A nap is recommended." She knit her brows together motherly. "You two look like hell."

The detectives waited until it was time for St. Claire to arrive. And waited. And waited for over an hour after that with no phone call and no idea what was going on.

Finally, they got the call. Eames picked up the phone and avoided Goren's eyes for along moment. "Uh-huh," she said over and over again. "How? Uh-huh… Which hospital? Uh-huh… All right, then. Thanks."

She hung up the phone and finally looked at her fidgeting partner. "St. Claire is on life-support," she said. "St. Vincent's Hospital."

Goren didn't know where to begin. A part of his brain wanted to just drop everything where it was and never pick it up again. "What did he do?"

"Shot himself in the mouth."

"Where'd he get the gun?"

"Had it all along."

"What are his chances of survival?"

Eames sighed. "Not good."

He rubbed his forehead and leaned back in his chair. "For now, let's pencil in the report as if he were dead already. I've got the papers right here. We might as well get started."

She took two-thirds of the stack, being the better pencil-pusher, and left him to moan and groan over the rest. Two hours later, as their papers dwindled down, Eames got the call that St. Claire was dead.

"I don't understand it," she said, hanging up. "What was he so afraid of? It was going to be nearly impossible to pin him to anything. What we could get him with wasn't going to give him life or the needle…"

"Prison," said Goren. "He was afraid of prison." He thought hard for a long, quiet moment. "The porn. Something wasn't right. It was too—standard. Some weren't even open, were they?" Alex shook her head, wondering where he was going with this. "I think he was gay," Goren concluded. "And I think he was terrified of being found out."

"But he impregnated Monica…"

"Bisexual, then. They actually have it rougher in prison than homosexuals. People look at it as… as if he just can't make up his mind. Or won't. As if he's afraid of being 'truly' homosexual."

"This is an extremely unsatisfactory ending," grumbled Eames.

"It rarely ends well in real life, Alex," he said. "We're not Dick Tracey, finding things out just in time for the rolling credits." He told her this because he knew it concluded things for her. His own brain was still abuzz with disappointment.

Eames nodded and finished her papers. Goren still had about five pages to fill out, none of which he was looking forward to. He scribbled a few more sentences and gave up, resting his head on the cool surface of the desk. He sat there until the coolness was gone, hoping nobody was looking at him. Hoping no one came over to check for a pulse, as a few of the jokers were prone to doing. It was embarrassing when they did that.

Minutes passed. He heard Eames take his papers from the corner of his desk and finish them for him. He told himself to thank her later. Just when he was about to sit up, he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders that beckoned him to stay down.

He turned his head to look up and see Mercy mouth the words "Is he all right?" to Eames as she rubbed his neck tenderly—not touchy-feely enough to draw attention.

Goren didn't have to look up to see Eames mouth back "He'll be fine." Mercy shook her head and looked down to see him watching her. The fluorescent light behind her illuminated her hair and the corners of her face. She looked like she fell from Heaven.

He sat up. She quit rubbing his back but kept her hands where they were, as though to steady him. "That felt good," he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. He looked at Alex. "Thanks for taking care of the paperwork."

She shrugged. "It's what I'm here for." He wanted to argue but knew better.

"Well, kids," said Mercy, "it's time to go home."

"I'll be down in a minute," said Alex as Bobby got to his feet. "Just one or two last minute things to pick up."

"All right, then," said Mercy. "Are you ready, Bobby?"

He collected his things and pressed the elevator button down. In the ride alone, Mercy suddenly became shy, as though she wanted to say something. "Listen, Bobby--" she began. "There's something I'd like to say to you. Uh…" She fumbled over her words and tripped over herself in a way he'd never seen her do before. She grinned. "I suck at this. This whole… sharing of feelings. But I'm getting better…"

She collected herself at last as Bobby waited patiently and curiously. "Thank you."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's it? What for?"

"Listen, if there's one thing I'm not, it's ungrateful. I appreciate more than anybody I know the sacrifices made by soldiers, firefighters, cops, teachers… I know that you've probably never been thanked for all the good things you've done for this city and—hell, maybe the world—but I'd like to try." She stood on tip-toe and planted a soft, light kiss on his cheek. "Thanks."

He beamed broadly, catching her off guard. She was about to tell him about the disarming smile he had, but she figured one compliment per day would be enough for him.

"Oh, that's not necessary," he said.

"Sure it is. Don't argue with me." The elevator doors opened on the first floor.

Bobby took a moment to stand in the elevator and think back to the conversations he'd had, the things he'd learned, the relationships he'd built inside the tiny, intimate confines of the cube. If walls could talk…

Mercy found that she'd stepped over a dangerous line in kissing him like that. She suddenly wanted to kiss him again. Just like at the Christmas party. Over and over and all over him. She fidgeted with her keys and finally got her door unlocked. Bobby watched her from his car, feeling his cheek burning.

She felt him watching her, and turned to find him staring with a far-away look on his face. A dangerous look. They regarded each other for a moment, until she looked away, blushing slightly, and got into her car. She honked friendlily as she pulled out of the parking lot.

Roll credits.

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